


Birdsong at Morning

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M, Gen, Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-04
Updated: 1999-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: What were Fraser, Thatcher, and Turnbull doing in the Queen's Bedroom so early on a Saturday morning?





	Birdsong at Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Birdsong at Morning

 

****

Birdsong at Morning

Josephine March   
ALIGN="CENTER">

The Challenge: Meg and Benny JustDueIt

In that brief interval between sleeping and waking, Meg stirred, uncertain of exactly where she was. It was early morning, and a chorus of song greeted her from the tree outside the window. Feeling Ben's strong arms around her, the steady rise and fall of his chest in sleep, she allowed the memories to return slowly, savoring each one. 

The past two days - Thursday and Friday - had been unbearably tedious. Both Meg and Ben had been called upon to give testimony, in their official capacities, in the matter of the Ronzoni Brothers, who were wanted on both sides of the border in their capacity as purveyors of recreational pharmaceuticals. For Meg at least, that had meant two days of sitting on hard benches in a stuffy courtroom, attempting to stay focused on the droning attorneys while enduring the abominable itching of the red woolen tunic. Ben had said little, presumably enduring the same discomforts with his normal stoicism. But at least he was sufficiently tall that his feet reached the floor. Meg had been hard put to suppress the urge to kick her feet back and forth. 

It had been close to 6 p.m. Friday when the hearing had finally limped to a close. It had seemed entirely appropriate to Meg that she suggest they get some dinner. A short while later, settled in a small Italian restaurant, Ben had surprised her by agreeing to share a bottle of wine instead of ordering his usual mineral water. Dinner had proceeded at a leisurely and comfortable pace; first with conversation about the case, then about other cases, early postings, school, even childhood recollections. By cappuccino time, neither had wanted the evening to end just yet.

The walk in the park had also seemed like a fine idea, though neither would later recall who had suggested it. Nor could Meg remember exactly how they had come to be arm in arm at the exact moment when the moon began to rise over the lake. But there had been a kiss, then another, and another; and these she recalled in precise detail. 

Meg actually felt a blush suffuse her cheeks as she considered what had followed. When they had finally parted, reluctantly, it had seemed perfectly acceptable for her to offer to drop him off at the Consulate. After all, she could hardly have let him walk - could she? There had been a cup of tea. How exactly had that led to her being swept into his arms and carried upstairs to the Queen's Bedroom? Meg opened her eyes. Yes, there were their clothes in several untidy heaps, on the bedpost, the floor, in front of the fireplace - the fireplace? Ah, yes. The fireplace. Meg smiled to herself and closed her eyes again. 

Just as she was ready to settle back into sleep, she felt him stir. She turned in his arms, felt them tighten around her, watched the blue eyes open, and delighted in the slow, lazy smile of recognition. 

"Good morning," he said. Was that larks singing in the tree outside? She didn't know if were larks in Chicago. Probably robins or starlings. But she did know that she wanted to hear that "Good morning" every day for the rest of her life. 

"It's Saturday, you know," she replied. "We have a whole Saturday all to ourselves."

"I knew that." And there was that smile again as he tilted her chin up for a kiss, then another, then another.

A short time later, they both became aware at the same instant that the robin's song had stopped, to be replaced by - what the hell *was* it? A vacuum cleaner? They paused breathlessly, each straining to hear the cause of the disturbance. Yes. A vacuum cleaner, and not all that far away. And over the mechanical roar, the sound of a not-unpleasant baritone voice singing "God Save the Queen."

"Turnbull!" each exclaimed at the same instant. 

Throwing off the covers, they began frantically to search the room for their clothes. Meg located her panties and bra on the doorknob and was into them in a flash. Undershirt! She seized it and began to pull it over her head. Damn! Too big! She looked over to find Ben, clad in his shorts, sheepishly extracting his leg from a pair of trousers an order of magnitude too small for him. "Catch!" she whispered, lobbing the shirt at him and expertly catching the pants, now turned infuriatingly wrong-side out. 

The mechanical noise receded a bit. Though they could still hear its muted roar, they could no longer hear the singing. "He's probably going to finish downstairs before he comes up here," whispered Ben, discarding a boot. She snatched it up and jammed it on her left foot, giving a little hop as she pointed her toe and pushed. Now, where was the other one? Ah! She limped over to it and pulled it on, taking the time to do up the laces before she broke her neck.

Her tunic? No problem. It was clearly much smaller than his. No more time to worry about the undershirt. She shrugged into the tunic and did up the buttons in frantic haste, ignoring the itching that was already beginning to crawl up the small of her back. She picked up the belt.

"Meg," she heard him whisper and turned. "I may require your assistance." She realized that his shoulder and arm were inextricably confined by a small brown belt that permitted him no movement at all. She gave it a vicious yank, and he was finally free. "Thank you," he smiled at her. "I thought I was going to have to dislocate my shoulder." 

She could not resist reaching up for a quick kiss as she handed him his own belt, then finished doing the buckles on hers.

"Is my lanyard straight?" What an engaging question. She gave it a quick, final tug, smiling up at him.

The mechanical monster roared nearer, upstairs now. "God Save the Queen" had been succeeded by the stirring strains of "Oh, Canada!" floating over the racket like a benediction. The bed! Without speaking a word, each chose a side, pulling and smoothing the tangled sheets, the pillows, the coverlet. Then they stepped back, eyeing the room, the bed, and themselves with the satisfaction of a job well done.

Meg tiptoed over and opened the door, then moved quietly to stand by the window. 

"Constable Fraser," she said as the vacuum rounded the corner into the room, followed closely by the apron-clad Turnbull, "I want you to get the measurements of all of the windows on the second floor. Sven will be here Monday morning at nine. Be prepared to give him the measurements so he can begin the new draperies."

"Yes, Ma'am" replied the Constable.

"Inspector. Sir. I'm surprised to see you here so early this morning." Mercifully, Turnbull extinguished the vacuum cleaner and eyed them both with a puzzled look.

"Can't let the grass grow, Constable Turnbull," replied the Inspector. "After all, Constable Fraser and I missed two whole days of work this week. And what brings you to the Consulate on your day off?"

"Well, I was so busy on sentry duty that I neglected the vacuuming."

"Very commendable, Constable. Carry on." And Thatcher swept from the room, followed by her deputy.

When they were safely down the hall, he pulled her into his arms for another kiss. The vacuum cleaner roared reassuringly on, so they had another kiss, and then another. 

"Breakfast?" managed Ben, a little hoarsely.

"Yes. My place," she replied, letting go of him reluctantly.

"I'll go inform Turnbull that we're leaving." Ben turned back down the hall to the Queen's Bedroom. 

Meg spent a moment fixing her hair at the hallway mirror. When he returned, they continued down the stairs. The vacuum cleaner stopped again.

"Constable! Constable Fraser, just a minute!" Turnbull clattered down the steps. "I don't think you want to go out that way, Sir!" he exclaimed, reaching behind the astonished Fraser. "This sleeve is, er, well, it was hanging out below your tunic in the back, Sir." Turnbull reached down, gave a respectful tug, and handed Fraser a white long-sleeved undershirt, size extra-small. 

__

The characters in this story are the property of Alliance Communications. The story is the property of Josephine March. You may not reproduce it for any reason without the express written permission of the author.


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